Date Night
by Ceile
Summary: It's the off-season, and Chris is ready for some downtime with his own personal Mystery Man. The GPF didn't go as planned for him, but he's planned this Date Night for days: it's simple, it's borderline cliché, but that's exactly what he needs after this crazy season without Viktor in the lineup. What could go wrong with plans for dinner and a movie, right?


Summary: It's the off-season, and Chris is ready for some downtime with his own personal Mystery Man. The GPF didn't go as planned for him, but he's planned this Date Night for days: it's simple, it's borderline cliché, but that's exactly what he needs after this crazy season without Viktor in the lineup. What could go wrong with plans for dinner and a movie, right?

A/N: This was written as a gift for phiewdh, whose work for this fandom is a gift to everyone who reads it. I wasn't going to publish this originally since I've never written for this fandom before (even though I do have a very serious Viktuuri obsession!), but I ended up getting persuaded to do it. I suppose I am weak to this fandom after all. Please enjoy, or, alternatively, please blame phiewdh for making me agree that this silly story should be released to the masses.

* * *

Date Night

Movie showtimes bookmarked on his phone, check.

Fine French Cabernet and two LaLique goblets on the coffee table by the sofa, check.

Cheese and red grapes from their favorite farmers' market on a simple butcher block next to the wine, check.

Mocha religieuse from that quaint bakery located all the way on the other side of town for dessert, check.

New bed linens and his partner's toiletries restocked, check.

Other...necessities..., check.

The only things he hadn't been able to procure were tickets to that Chopin recital that his lover had wanted to attend the following evening; it had been sold out for months, and it had totally slipped his mind with everything that happened at the GPF so he never reserved their seats.

Hopefully he could make tonight _very memorable_ so that his lover would be contented anyway, even though he knew how disappointed he had been to have to miss the concert.

One final sweeping look around his apartment signified for Christophe Giacometti that everything for the first Date Night of the Off-Season was ready to go. All he needed to do now was to wait about thirty more minutes for _him_ to arrive.

"Or not," he said aloud with a soft chuckle, the pronouncement only his cat would hear.

The doorbell rang and his perpetually early partner was a full fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, but that was more than fine. It had been a long season, and a somewhat disappointing one in many ways. Viktor Nikiforov had taken the season off to become the coach for Katsuki Yuuri of Japan, and basically trained up a rival that took a place on the podium of the Grand Prix Final that usually Chris himself would have had, with Viktor in the top spot instead of the young Russian Ice Tiger Yuri Plisetsky being there instead.

It was sort of a crappy season without Viktor, made worse by the fact that he realized, probably too late into things, that he'd been chasing the silver-haired legend for so long, so used to seeing Viktor ahead of him in the final standings of any shared competition, that he felt a sting of defeat he hadn't felt in years when the two Yuris managed to kick his amazingly toned skater ass off the podium.

That Canadian loudmouth and all his ridiculous base-points need not be mentioned either, lest Chris's wounds become even more salted.

But, what was done was done; he hadn't skated perfect programs at the Grand Prix Final, he knew that. That Canadian sure didn't either, but whatever. Chris hadn't decided to retire. Yet.

Viktor was coming back to the competitive circuit again so there was no way in hell Chris was about to bow out now. The two geezers of international men's figure skating needed to take back what was theirs next season from those two usurper Yuris, right? Oh...and from other assorted people too, he supposed. That Otabek though…

Sighing to shake off the ups and downs of the season and to climb out of the skate-think rabbit-hole, he put on his best bedroom eyes and went to the door, doing a quick check that his almost too-tight white button-up shirt was almost too-tight in all the right places, and that his black, _definitely_ too-tight-in-all-the-right-places jeans were, well, where they were supposed to be. He opened the door and remembered why he loved the off-season.

"Bonsoir, chéri," he hummed to the attractive man on the doorstep, who was preparing to ring the bell a second time.

The man with the coffee-colored hair and the designer suit smiled gently. "I was beginning to think you'd lost track of time in the shower or something…"

"Hmm, now _there's_ an idea worth saving for later," Chris quipped in a sultry tone, ushering his partner inside and taking the small weekender bag from his hands. Sure, it was kind of stupid for them to be playing at sleepovers instead of just biting the bullet and moving in together, but it seemed like neither of them were quite ready to give up their separate residences, even though they were less than an hour's drive away from each other. It was fine. They were both busy, and, with the season, Chris was barely home anyway.

Wait. Stop. It's the _off_ -season now. And home was here, now, along with his purring white kitty-cat on the couch and, hopefully, _later_ , a purring _partner_ in his bed besides.

"Can we not skip the 'date' part of 'date-night' this time, Chris?" his lover chastised mildly toward the shower idea with a smile and a little put-on eyeroll, "I actually do want to have our dinner and a movie tonight."

"Then I am but your humble servant in all things dinner-and-a-movie related," Chris returned flirtatiously. The man shook his head once, but the little smile remained as he plucked a grape to eat from the platter next to the wine and reached for the corkscrew.

"Shall I pour?" he asked, hooking the loop at the top of the corkscrew with his index finger and spinning it around once to catch it in the palm of his hand.

"I thought you'd never ask," Chris replied as he brought the weekender bag into the bedroom and placed it on the dresser. He hadn't quite gotten up the muster to actually tell his partner that there were empty drawers available if he wanted to leave things there. Not yet. But, he did want to do it.

However, this "thing" was going much more slowly than any of his past dalliences, and Chris supposed that the fact that most of his prior lovers were just daliences was truly the crux of the matter. He didn't want to do that anymore; for all that he played up his mature eros in his programs, there was a new type of need that this amazing man in the living room had brought out in him now. For once, Chris wanted to take his time and try an actual relationship. It was a little terrifying, though, much more so than any stupid quad Lutz could ever hope to be. Maybe that was why that spare key to the apartment still sat inside one of those waiting empty drawers and not around his lover's key ring instead.

"Chris? Is everything all right?" his guest asked from the doorjamb of the bedroom, his arm outstretched with one of the LaLique glasses filled to one-third capacity with the rich Cabernet.

Chris smiled and took the glass, savoring the taste as he brought it to his lips for a much-desired sip. "It is now…"

The man smiled. "Good. We'll have our arpertif, but then we need to get going. Our reservations are in about an hour-and-a-half and-"

"And the restaurant is no more than ten minutes from here, chéri," he interrupted, placing a chaste, wine-flavored kiss on equally wine-flavored lips. "We don't need to leave for an hour and twenty minutes," he affirmed with a low whisper as the partner's eyes fluttered open, "which is plenty of time to enjoy our wine...and anything else you might want to enjoy…"

A sigh of mock-exasperation. "Fine. As long as we are fashionably _on time_ and not fashionably late."

"I'll drink to that."

God, the off-season was great: French food with all its butter and cream and calories. French wine with all it's lovely promises of intoxication and its passion-filled outcomes, the very muse for his short program this season since this amazing man came into his life. French dessert waiting patiently for their return from the movie, or, maybe for breakfast instead depending on how things went...French kissing, perhaps? He didn't start out his plans with an intention for things to have a sort of Parisian flair tonight, but, as they say, c'est la vie.

All of those lovely things were probably ahead on this lovely Friday night, ready for them to enjoy at their leisure with no plane to catch, no qualifiers to watch on tv or on livestream to scout the competition…

No. Skating. Period.

They sat closely together, sharing half of the sofa because the cat had, of course, claimed the entire other half for herself, and they were listening to a bit of music playing softly from a portable speaker as they sipped their wine and sampled the cheese and grapes.

It was so relaxing with this person, such a contrast to his normal hectic life as an elite athlete; maybe retirement would have some rewards of its own after all, sans the whole precious metal disc hanging from a ribbon thing. But not yet. Was this really a relationship yet? No, probably it wasn't. Also, not yet.

It was close though, Chris thought. Really close.

Just like his 26th birthday. Merde. Would he really be able to bang out one more year?

"Chris," the partner said after a few moments of silent sipping and light squeezes on a knee, and further sampling of the cheese, "are you competing in your brain again?"

Chris chuckled. "Not really…"

"You are thinking about things, though, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I guess it can't be helped; this past season was...really different. But, it's over now, and we're here and we don't have to rush."

"Not for thirty more minutes, right?"

"More like forty-five," Chris supplied, thankful that this person could always give him plenty of room, but never too much. He was like that in everything so far, and it was working. He was the perfect foil to skating seasons which always had their fair share of almost-scandals, drama and, lest he forget, drama _queens,_ read: Viktor Nikiforov.

How the previous season's Sochi banquet, the whole drunk-pole-dancing-with-Katsuki-Yuuri-and-his-fine-self-and-his-fine-dance-moves, somehow managed to be hushed-up pretty well by all who witnessed it so it never made the tabloids, would forever remain a mystery to some who were in attendance. However, everyone in their main circle figured that it was probably Viktor who made that happen, probably paying off a bunch of reporters with some money and his impossibly effortless media-charm, and probably some promises for free photos or spokesperson gigs besides. And, of course, Instagram King Phichit Chulanont from Thailand was not in attendance. Even Viktor was no match for that boy's amazing speed-uploading and speed-tagging skills.

And Yuuri himself had just plain _forgotten_ the night Viktor had fallen hopelessly in love with him. Un-fucking real. For the Russian, finding that out at dinner a year later in Barcelona had to be a shock, even for the king of surprises, almost as shocking as seeing the matching rings was to everyone else that night.

"Chris, are you sure you're all right? Maybe we should do this another time. You only arrived home yesterday…"

"No," he asserted firmly, pulling his lover closer to him by two fingers to his chin for a soft kiss, a gentle single roll of tongue followed by the sweetest of innocent pecks. "I'm sorry. A lot happened this year; I guess I'm still sorting it out in my head after all. I definitely want tonight to happen, and I definitely want to go to the movies, and I _definitely_ want you to come back here for a whole weekend's worth of dessert."

Another smile, and a gentle toss of the smooth, longish brown hair. "Okay. It sounds great." More light kisses, more sips of wine, and a couple of glances toward a wrist-watch later, and it was time to head out. The first Date Night of the Off-Season was about to go to the next level…

Or not.

The quiet was interrupted by the doorbell being pushed and pushed and pushed, and frantic knocking at the door immediately followed. With alarm, the pair on the couch rushed to the door to see what was the emergency, only to open it and find the World's Biggest Flake on the doorstep, half-drunk and laughing hysterically and looking like a ditzy, smiling fucking train wreck.

"Chhhhrrrrrriiiiiiiissss~! Surpriiiissssse~!"

The two men at the door just stood with their mouths totally slack-jawed at the sight of the seemingly happy-drunk Russian outside and his _three huge suitcases_ behind him in tow.

"Uh, V-viktor," Chris stammered, recovering the ability to speak first, "What the hell are you doing here?!"

"I wanted to spend some quality time with my best friend, Silly," the skating legend declared matter-of-factly, or, about as matter-of-factly as someone already three sheets to the wind could possibly be. "Here, help me with my luggage," he directed, pointing at his three large roller bags of hard-sided luggage.

Chris's partner backed up a few paces into the apartment as Viktor strode in with a wave and a cheerfully sing-song "Hi~!" as he rolled one of the suitcases inside, leaving Chris to lug the other two indoors from the slightly drizzly evening.

"H-hello," the man eked out finally, casting a quick and questioning look of "what the hell?!" to Chris as he lowered the handles on the ridiculously heavy suitcases. Chris could only shrug in response because Viktor had already spied the bottle of Cabernet and the cheeses on the table.

"Oooh, Chris, you're entertaining! Wow~ I'm just in time. When are your other guests arriving?"

The Swiss skater just stared at Viktor as he marched himself into the small kitchen without waiting for an answer to look for another glass; the fact that there were only two glasses out seemed to totally not click with him that maybe this was supposed to be entertaining for _two_. Not _three_. And definitely _not Viktor_.

"Viktor-"

"Found them!" the Russian interrupted happily, his eyes glittering with mischief and mirth. "Here, I'll help you get the rest of the glasses out. How many people are you expecting, Chris?"

"Uh…," Chris faltered. That was a damn good fucking question. Where the hell was Yuuri? Those two dorks were practically attached at the hip, mainly because, well, _Viktor_. And with three huge bags, Chris half expected a jet-lagged, half-asleep Katsuki Yuuri to be knocking at any moment too, his flaky boyfriend, fiance?, forgetting him as he slept in the cab or something equally flaky.

"Maybe I should go…," Chris's lover began softly, reaching to touch his fingertips, unsure of what exactly he should be doing at a time like this.

"No, chéri, just...give me a minute," he replied, squeezing the man's uncertain hand. "Let me figure this out, okay?"

"Chris, did you really not know he was coming?" his lover whispered.

"Bingo," he whispered back with a frown.

"Is this….normal?"

Chris emitted what was sure to sound to his lover like a long-suffering sigh. "No, it's not normal at all, but it's definitely Viktor. This is sort of...how he rolls. I guess."

"Okay….?" came the unconvinced response.

God, that explanation was weak. But true. It made his friend utterly captivating but utterly frustrating too. Even if, up until this last season anyway, half the internet thought that they were friends with benefits at the least, or on-again, off-again lovers at most, there was no way in hell Chris would touch that with a ten foot pole, no matter that the silver-haired Russian was drop-dead gorgeous.

Well, he ceded to himself, there was that _one_ kiss that _one_ time at that _one_ bar that probably would have gone past the point of no return except they got kicked out first….but no. _No_. They had still kissed here and there for fun, and maybe, _maybe_ , sometimes to ease the loneliness that competing in an individual sport sometimes presented for fierce competitors. But mainly it was just for shits and giggles because they both actually enjoyed keeping people guessing right up until Sochi...

"I...what do we do now?" his lover pressed.

Chris sure as hell didn't have an answer. Not yet. Not while Viktor was already rolling his suitcases into the second bedroom of his apartment one at a time as he sipped wine, _their date-night wine,_ from the glass in his other hand.

Chris had only introduced his partner to Viktor once, over FaceTime, about three days before the Russian legend saw that damn You-Tube video of Yuuri skating his program and then impulsively hopped a plane to Japan to end his year of pining for a drunk-pole-dancing-sexy-Japanese-skater-who-forgot-the-whole-night-anyway.

Oh merde. Three huge suitcases. No Yuuri. Shit, shit, _shit!_

"Give me a minute, chéri," Chris pleaded. "I'll get him to book a room or something, and I'll figure it out tomorrow. Let me talk to him for a minute, and then we're out the door. Okay?"

For the millionth time, he was grateful that his partner seemed not to have a single jealous bone in his body as he felt the reciprocative squeeze to his hand and saw the nod and the half-smile. He was probably more ticked off about possibly being late for their dinner reservation than the randomness of having Viktor Fucking Nikiforov blast through their quiet evening like the worst of Siberian blizzards.

And, _again_ , where in the hell was Yuuri? Chris _really_ needed to have a heart-to-heart with Viktor's precious Katsudon. That little hottie needed to forget taking his rare Instagram posts while walking that oversized poodle in front of historical landmarks of St. Petersburg and put the leash on his fucking boyfriend instead!

Chris released his patient lover's hand and followed the noise to the guest room where Viktor was already helping himself to the empty drawers of the dresser in the room by putting clothes inside. God-damnit, not even _his own lover_ put clothes away at his apartment, and Viktor had only actually been here once before!

"Viktor-"

"Chris! I'm glad you're here. Help me shake out the duvet. I think there's cat hair on it," he said as he pointed to the white duvet. His cat was white. There was no way Viktor could tell if there was any stupid cat hair on it or not. He was just being _Viktor_ , and he was-

 _Not. Staying._

Wasn't he _just_ thinking about how nice the off season was because there were no fucking drama queens?

"Viktor, there's no cat hair on there. She doesn't come in here much, and, oh, by the way, _what the hell are you doing here?!_ " he retorted firmly, not totally raising his voice, but wanting the Flake to explain himself, even if the explanation would probably only make sense to Viktor in the end.

The addressed flashed him those glittering blue eyes through a tipsy lid of silver lashes and his dazzling smile, the one that made people go along with his most _ridiculous_ of schemes. "Please? Shake it out for me so I don't sneeze all night! This is why dogs are better," he fake-grumped, draining the remainder of the wine from his glass. At least he had put a handkerchief down on the furniture as a substitute for a coaster. God; how could he be so considerate about potentially leaving a ring on the dresser, but be so inconsiderate about just showing up out of the blue in the first place?!

And on _Date Night?!_

But, there he stood with his hair slightly-askew, and his cheeks and nose rosy with an alcoholic blush, hands briefly akimbo as he looked at him before resuming the putting away of clothes in the guest room dresser. He also kept flashing him that "darling-of-mine" coquettish little look that turned people to absolute goo, no matter their gender.

Chris knew that look all too well; quick mental playback began, containing memories of bar-crawls with those occasional make-out moments, and getting tossed from clubs, and hotels, and flirty-drunk social media posts taken over the many years of their friendship. It made Chris's thoughts swim together like he and Viktor had while they got tipsy and goofed off in the pool in Barcelona last December...but there were no make out sessions there, just more fake-flirting. By that time, Viktor had been all about Yuuri, pretty much all _over_ Yuuri. And Chris had his amazing lover with the amazing suits and the professional career and the awesome car…

Maybe he should just turn on his heel, give up trying to talk to Viktor, walk back into the living room, and try to get ahold of Yuuri instead? At least _Yuuri_ wasn't a _Flake_. He ended up shaking out the duvet for no reason, though, damn persuasive Viktor!, but as soon as it was back down on the bed, he turned to leave the room to make that damn phone call to St. Petersburg.

Suddenly though, Chris stopped in his tracks and Viktor opened another drawer and hummed to himself as he filled it with more of his crap.

Wait. Did Yuuri even _know_ Viktor was gone?

Maybe calling the Katsudon-dreamboat wouldn't be such a good idea; Chris certainly didn't know the situation yet. He wasn't really friends with Yuuri per se, even though they were certainly friendly. However, they _were_ friendly enough to pole-dance together which was really, _really_ hot, hot enough to the point that Chris certainly would not have minded tapping that _at all_ but for the fact that he could see Viktor's expressions the whole time the dance battle was going on. What he saw were expressions he'd never seen before on the face of the living legend, no matter how many times they flirted with each other or made-out after doing a few-too-many shots; they were looks of pure _joy_ toward the Japanese skater, and Yuuri didn't even remember a damn thing about that banquet! But Chris sure did; he'd never seen his friend happier than he was in those moments, only to FaceTime with him several weeks later, the conversation basically one-sided as a very sloshed and overly-dramatic Viktor lamented that Yuuri never even got in touch with him at all and he didn't know what he should do about it, and why couldn't Chris be there in person and kiss it better after some more shots?

Right after that, right after that depressed drama queen Viktor had _almost_ cast a spell on him that made him _almost_ reconsider the whole _not_ -friends-with-benefits thing after all, Chris met his own dreamboat who was currently and patiently waiting by the door, probably wondering what in holy hell would possess someone to fly to Switzerland from St. Petersburg without so much as a ten-minute warning of his impending arrival. His own dreamboat was _never_ that impulsive about logistical stuff like that. Ever.

Chris couldn't call Yuuri yet, because it was _Viktor_ that was his actual friend.

Great.

 _Three large suitcases._

But then, Viktor never travelled light. It probably meant nothing.

 _Viktor half-drunk and showing up randomly in Luzanne._

Well, that was certainly within the realm for the impulsive Russian, but would his darling Yuuri really support _all_ of his squirrelly tendencies and just let him take off without even checking first as to whether or not Chris would even _be_ there?

 _The Flake was alone._

'Oh, _please_ let there not be trouble in paradise,' Chris lamented to himself. Now he had literally no choice but to try and get the answer from Viktor after all. Merde.

"Viktor," he tried again, "I'm going to speak slowly so you won't get distracted by shiny things while I'm talking. Why. Are. You. _Here_?"

"Oh Chris," Viktor cooed, "if I want to visit my _best friend_ , do I really need to have a reason?"

Ugh. Normally, the fake-flirty Viktor was hella fun, but today?! Of all days?! When his real dream date was still waiting by the door probably checking his watch every fifteen seconds wondering if he'd just entered the Twilight Zone instead of going out on Date Night?!

God damn dog people and their penchant for imitating their stupid puppy-dog eyes. In this moment, he really wished to have the kindred spirit of another cat-person around, someone like Yuri Plisetsky, who would take _extreme_ delight in giving Viktor a few swift kicks in the back for him right about now.

"You can't stay here. I have company, mon ami," Chris tried again.

"Oh, right, wow~, I almost forgot. What time is your company coming? I can help you entertain and-"

"My company is already here, and we are going to be late for our dinner reservation. Did you even hear the part where I said 'you can't stay here'?"

The hands that were folding clothes and placing them in the drawers stopped their task. Viktor froze, hands clutching a dark violet cashmere sweater in a sudden death grip as he was half bent-over the open drawer. "Ah, I grabbed one of his by mistake," he remarked softly.

"Vik-"

"Chris," he interrupted, "I...need my friend tonight. I'm sorry. I should have called, I honestly thought I texted you, but I guess I forgot and…" his voice trailed off and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Chris was stunned to see that Viktor was silently crying, his tears soaking into that violet cashmere he held in his hands. _Actual_ crying and not the fake-crying he sometimes did to get out of a sticky situation with a local cop when they got too rowdy or too "friendly" in public.

This was not good. Chris didn't want to, but he tried discreetly to peek to see his friend's hand. The ring was still there. Okay. Viktor was upset, but, he was still wearing his ring. "Okay, all right. What do you need?"

The drama queen had morphed into something really upsetting after all; he was utterly deflated, and he looked...lost. Exhausted, and _lost_. "Sleep, actually," he said quietly at length. "Please tell Mystery Man I'm sorry for ruining your night…"

Chris clicked his tongue in exasperation. "Would it _kill_ you to remember his name? Sheesh," he grumbled. "Don't call him that to his face. His name is-"

"I'm sorry, Chris," Victor whispered in interruption, recovering himself enough to place the sweater inside the drawer before closing it. "I'm just going to lay down for a little while. If that's ok. Then I'll get a room somewhere. Promise."

"Don't do that. Stay here tonight. I'll smooth it over with him over dinner, okay?"

Viktor looked up with his big sloppy globby tears and smiled a true smile, the one very few people have ever seen. "Thanks, Chris. I...don't know what I'd do without you…"

"I don't know either," Chris responded, extending his arms and bracing for impact. They both knew the value a hug could provide in situations like this, whatever the situation was. It was brief; it seemed that even Viktor still had a sliver of common sense in that crazy brain of his not to linger when Chris's lover was still waiting in the other room. He reached into a half-empty suitcase for pyjamas and put them on the bed.

"Go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

Viktor nodded and Chris walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

"So?" his lover queried, "What's going on?"

"Sorry, I still don't really know. I know I said I would tell him to get a room but…I ended up telling him he could sleep it off in the guest room. Sorry, chéri..."

"I guess we're skipping the 'date' part of 'date night' then? We're already late."

"No," Chris said firmly, "Chéri, no, we _will_ be fashionably late tonight and I'll make it up to you in spades, have no worry. I just...I've known Viktor for almost a decade. He may have millions of fans but...he doesn't exactly have a lot of friends."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I know he's a _Flake_. And he can be a drama queen, and he can be an attention whore, and everything else you don't want to deal with about celebrity. I get that. And, I know you've seen him on TV or whatever, and he seems like the type of guy who loves everyone and everyone loves him; flirty, accommodating to fans, will take a selfie or sign an autograph for whichever fan wants one. But, in reality, that's the Viktor he wants people to see, and not really who he is."

"Ah."

"I'm not saying I know everything about him, I really don't actually, because what he actually shares about himself is surprisingly little. But it is what it is, and I think that's why we're friends. I don't press him for details, and he doesn't offer any, and neither do I. It works that way."

"You don't have to justify your friendship with me; I just wish he wasn't so…"

"I know," Chris responded. There really wasn't a need to finish the sentence, because it could have ended in any one of a plethora of words that could describe Viktor Nikiforov, and probably all of them would have had some measure of accuracy to one degree or another. "He has his moments when his kindness isn't fake. Only a few people get that from him, and I guess I'm one of them. I think it means I need to return that kindness when he needs it..." his voice trailed off, not sure if he should have elaborated this much about his odd friendship with the Flake, but, if he was heading toward "relationship" with this other special man, well, everyone has baggage. His lover had a right to know that some of Chris's baggage just happens to carry three additional pieces of baggage of his own wherever he went and his name was Viktor Nikiforov.

Chris looked at the gentle smile he was given. "This is why it's you, Chris, that I want to be with," he said softly. "We'll go to dinner, we'll be late and you'll let me be annoyed about it, we'll see that movie, and then I'll go home and you'll take care of your friend."

"No, I don't want you to leave," Chris blurted out. He received a look of surprise in return. "Honestly," he continued, leaning in for a kiss, "I've been thinking about this for a while. About us. About weekends...about how maybe they're not enough…"

"Let's talk about it at the restaurant. If we don't leave now, they'll definitely be giving away our table," he replied.

"All right."

The pair walked out the door and into the fancy car to drive to the fancy restaurant, and they managed to resurrect most of the Date Night. The movie was so-so, but Chris was more contented by his partner gently removing his ever-wandering hand from his knee in the theater. All in all, it was a great night, just the two of them.

And they did talk about weekends. And maybe weekdays. And maybe a spare key and some empty drawers.

He'll think about it.

Okay. Fair enough for a first attempt at the subject.

"You don't have to drive home, chéri," Chris began after a pleasingly languid kiss in the car when they returned back to the apartment and parked, the radio playing softly in accompaniment to the intimacy. "He's probably dead to the world asleep. I can be quiet when I want to be…"

"Chris...we don't know what we'll be walking into. Is it a real crisis, or is it one of his own making? You don't know, right?"

"Yeah. I don't know. His lover could have left him, or maybe his dog died...or, he has a damn paper cut on his pinky finger. I have no idea."

"I don't think I should be there; I would only be intruding. He's your friend, certainly not mine. If that other skater really left him..."

"Are you serious?!" he exclaimed with mock-sternness, but choosing to ignore for the moment the unpleasant thought that it could definitely be as bad as that last sentence. " _He's_ the one who intruded on _us_ , you know. He has this way about him that makes people naturally want to do things his way. Don't fall into it! That's a requirement for being mon petit chou, after all," He said with a nibble to his lover's earlobe for added effect. "Please don't fall in love with him…"

At this, an actual laugh escaped, and, oh, what a beautiful sound! "I think both of us will cede that he's _gorgeous_ , but I couldn't deal with that type of impulsive personality. I think I would twitch every day, and not in a way that would be pleasant."

"But you like me; I can be impulsive too…"

"It's...different. I guess you could say, it's just enough to be something I find exciting, but you're never overboard with me. I gave you notice upfront that I don't want to be in the spotlight, I don't want my name appearing on TV if I'm at the kiss and cry with you, I just want to be there for you, but not overtly there. Does that even make sense?"

"It does."

"And you've respected that. I even get that you spend time, just the two of you, with…"

"The train wreck?"

"Yes, with the train wreck," he affirmed with a little huffing laugh. "I'm not jealous of it, and I know you two have your boundaries, and I'm not involved in sports so I don't know what that type of pressure is like. I even understand that maybe there have been times for you and for him where the boundary between friends and lovers may have been blurred for the two of you. Everyone has a past."

Chris was slightly taken aback; he'd never told his partner about any of those times with Viktor. He doubted Viktor had said anything about it to Yuuri either, lord knows _he_ wasn't going to throw that particular hand-grenade at that particular person, but it wasn't like he intentionally hid this from his lover. "So...you figured that out, then," was all he could really say.

"It's pretty obvious if you follow your Instagram, but, yeah. I guess I figured it out that you were probably close like that from time to time."

"We never slept together," Chris declared. "I need you to know that. A lot of the silly stuff we do on social media is just to mess with people who think we do, or that we have, but we never did."

It was his lover's turn now to be surprised. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I won't lie, we came close once, several years ago, and maybe there were other times where I was too drunk to really remember everything, but, I never awoke in his bed, and he never awoke in mine."

"I admit I'm surprised about that," he paused, "and, I admit I'm sort of relieved to hear it. I know that's petty, but I'm just being honest with you."

"It's not petty. I might be his friend, but I could never be his lover, not seriously anyway. I'm telling you that honestly too, and i didn't specifically _not_ tell you about the other stuff; it's been awhile since any of that happened anyway."

"Like I said, everyone has a past. Your past is not mine to judge, Chris."

Another kiss, tender and light, but laced with a promise that would have to wait until another day after all. "I don't deserve you, chéri."

"Maybe it is I who doesn't deserve you…"

"We'll have to plan another Date Night now…"

He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled. "I suppose we will. I'll come in to get my bag and-"

"Just leave it there...that way I know you will have to come back eventually."

"Go take care of him, and call me tomorrow."

"Okay."

A bit dejected that he couldn't persuade the partner to not give a shit that Viktor was there and come to bed anyway, Chris understood. Knowing what he knew, of course it would be awkward for his lover. Chris definitely needed to bring the Flake up to speed about just how serious he was getting about this...relationship. If he told him using the right tone, at the right moment, when there were no shiny things or bottles of wine to distract him, he'd get it, the same way Chris had "got it" the night of the Sochi banquet when he saw Viktor dance with Katsuki Yuuri.

That was the night Chris knew that Viktor would never have been his anyway. Not for real. Fake-flirting and fake-scandalous behavior and occasional spit swapping would always have been the limit with them, and the Sochi banquet put a stop to the spit swapping for sure. Yes, they still pretended to be risquée for fanservice; hell, he even couldn't resist squeezing Yuuri's fine ass _once_ after Viktor started coaching him, getting one of the most adorably flustered reactions _ever_ for his trouble. But there was a definite shift in the level of it on both sides between himself and the Flake, and, now that the relationship between those two dorks was pretty much out there as a _thing_ , well, he wouldn't dare feel Yuuri up now or pole dance with him again, no matter how drunk Yuuri was or how hot he looked when he was balanced over him, draining a bottle of champ onto the floor with an "I don't give a fuck" attitude Chris never thought the shy Japanese skater could possess.

Maybe that's why Viktor fell in love. Katsuki Yuuri surprised a hell of a lot of people that night.

And maybe that's why Viktor would fall apart someday if he ever fucked it up. Chris hoped that this was not the day, because Viktor could definitely be a fuck-up when he wanted to be, and he really wasn't thrilled at the prospect of being an off-season roommate with said fuck-up. No. Not happening, no matter how much he whined or flirted or threatened to strip naked and not put any clothes on until Chris agreed to let him stay.

 _No._

He opened the door, and the apartment was quiet, save for the soft music they never bothered to turn off before they left. He walked down the small hallway toward the guest room and opened the door a little to see if Viktor was actually sleeping it off.

Confirmed; the living legend was in the middle of the bed, his phone settled loosely in his right hand as he slept, the silver stands of his hair fanned out onto the pillow and over his left eye. He looked like he was sleeping hard, though quietly, with the bed's other pillow in the death grip of his left arm. Chris supposed that Viktor probably held Yuuri while he slept too, he was _always_ clingy with him, and the pillow was probably a poor but necessary substitute.

He closed the door and went out to the kitchen where he reached into the fridge for a bottle of Evian. The religieuse were there, the untouched dessert for his abridged Date Night. He took the confections out and set them down on the kitchen table and helped himself to a bite of bliss. God, why was everything good to eat so damn fattening? He could live off this stuff someday, he was sure. Maybe a love of anything with chocolate was in his blood as a native of Switzerland…

Maybe for the next Date Night he could get his lover to play a game with some of that delicious ganache; he imagined it warm and drizzled over his partner's smooth chest for him to lick it right off and-

"Chris?"

 _Damnit_ , Viktor. His timing for jumps on the ice was flawless. His timing for most other things... _wasn't_.

Chris turned in his chair to face the drowsy champion as the man rubbed the vestiges of sleep from his eyes while leaning on the frame of the kitchen doorway. "Did I wake you? Sorry, Viktor…"

"No, I didn't hear you come in," the man affirmed as he walked into the kitchen. "I just had to use the bathroom and I saw the lights were on in here so...wow~! Is that religieuse?!" he exclaimed toward the sight of the dessert on the table and instantly he was wide awake. "Oh, Chris, you _shouldn't_ have!"

Another long-suffering sigh. "I _didn't_ , but go ahead and have one anyway. They won't keep for a week after all."

Viktor plopped down in the opposite chair with all the grace of a hippo and not the champion figure skater with who-knows-how-many-years of Russian ballet training besides. "Vkusno~!" he declared to the ceiling with his mouth half full of pastry and mocha cream.

"How about some coffee, Viktor?"

"Mmmm!" he hummed in the affirmative, not wanting to interrupt the "vkusno" of the religieuse for even one second. Chris rose from his chair and started preparing the coffee for the press. He set the water to boil and returned to his seat, noting that Viktor had managed to scarf down three of the pastries in no-time flat.

"So, Viktor, really. What the hell are you doing here?"

He chewed on his last bite and swallowed and smiled. 'Uh-oh. Here comes the babbling,' Chris thought as he saw Viktor's eyes sparkle and he took a breath before speaking. "I thought it would be fun to take that mountain drive we've always talked about doing but have never done. Maybe I can take some yodeling lessons and we can frolic like little shepherd boys in an Alpine field somewhere! Do you think I could try on some lederhosen? The Swiss have their own version of that, right? We could take some fun pictures with us 'threatening' to peel off each other's tights, hilarity ensues, and-"

"You are such a _manchild_!" Chris interrupted sternly; he was annoyed by Viktor's typical deflection of any type of serious conversation he wasn't ready for. He rose abruptly to answer the call of the kettle to pour the water into the French press; wasn't Viktor older than him by two fucking years?! They were _both_ "old farts" in their sport if Yuri Plisetsky could be believed, and it _was_ true, so why did Viktor insist on having a brain like a fart-joke loving thirteen-year-old boy? He had responded in English since Viktor's French was definitely more the "France" variety and not the Swiss, and he wanted to make sure the Russian actually understood how irritated he was getting, and there really wasn't an actual phrase in either dialect of French that perfectly matched _manchild_ anyway.

"What?! What even _is_ that?!" the legend retorted in English as well from his chair as he twisted around in his seat to await the answer.

Chris obliged him. "Go to the English site Urban Dictionary on your phone. I think a contributor updated the word 'manchild' with _your_ picture as the definition!"

"You're mad," Viktor declared softly with a pout.

"Well, I am a little pissed. I did have _plans_ tonight, for this _whole weekend_ actually. And here you show up with your insane amount of luggage like you're planning on moving in, and you toss a 'Hi~!' to my _lover_ like it's perfectly okay that your making yourself at home, totally _oblivious_ to the atmosphere, when the man I'm actually _sleeping_ _with_ doesn't even have my spare key yet, and he's looking at me for an answer I can't provide because you are a total _Flake_!"

God. Was the babbling contagious now or something? He wasn't even drunk or even pleasingly buzzed from the earlier wine anymore. Usually Chris didn't actually get _mad_ at Viktor really, but the Russian had stepped out of bounds this time, not that their boundaries were always clear. That was partially his fault too, Chris knew, but _seriously_. Was Viktor even listening? He was actually looking up "manchild" in his ever-present phone. He obviously found it because his mouth dropped open and those stupid globby sloppy tears started to pool up at the corners of those icy blue eyes. "Oh my," he said with a low and very serious tone. "Am I really this bad?"

Chris exhaled. He brought two mugs down from the shelf and placed them on the table. He let the question hang in the air so Viktor could stew on that for a minute, seeing that he was _almost_ ready to adult, despite the fact that he was about to cry again. Chris brought some cream out from the fridge and moved the sugar bowl from the counter to the table. He honestly couldn't remember if Viktor took sugar or cream in his coffee or if he took it black, his coffees usually shielded by a paper cup with a lid whenever they went for coffee on a break from practice or competition.

"Sometimes you are 'that bad'," Chris returned gently, placing a soft but brief touch of reassurance on Viktor's left hand before pouring them both some coffee. "And, _most_ of the time, it's okay, even fun. But, at some point, it gets... _ridiculous_."

Viktor sipped his coffee. Black, at first, but then he added just a touch of cream. Chris took a mental note that he had learned something new about his friend, and he wondered if Viktor was actually ready to talk and not babble now.

"Are you going to tell me what really happened?"

The elder of the pair was spinning his ring around with his thumb while staring at the coffee in his mug as if it would be able to tell him whether or not he should say anything at all. "Yuuri went to visit Phichit in Thailand," he quietly said at length after abandoning the fiddling with his ring and after taking another sip of the piping hot beverage.

"So?"

"' _So?!_ '" Viktor exclaimed with a petulant air, "Is that all you can say? ' _So?!_ '" he repeated. "I thought you _understood_ me, Chris!"

"What could I _possibly_ understand from just _that_ you Flake!"

"He's spending _two weeks_ there with Phichit and he didn't _invite_ me and I wanted to go to Disney World, or Tokyo Disney, or _any_ of the Disneys with him before we start gearing up for next season!"

Chris just stared at the man who was devolving back into a sloppy train wreck again right before his eyes. He hopped a plane to Switzerland because his boyfriend, fiance?, didn't take him to Thailand? Did it ever cross this manchild's mind that maybe it was _Phichit_ who didn't invite Viktor and not Yuuri? As far as Chris knew, the Russian didn't know the younger Thai skater all that well, and his darling Katsudon-hottie had been Phichit's roommate for _years_ in Detroit while they both trained under Coach Celestino. What the hell was wrong with Yuuri having a friend other than Viktor?

"Let me get this straight. You are upset because Yuuri wanted to spend a couple of weeks in the off-season with his friend of _several_ years, just because you wanted to play Prince Charming at Disneyland?"

"Disney _World_ ," Viktor corrected sulkily. "I hear Florida's is better."

This guy.

"Okay, Disney _World_ ," Chris grumbled. "You're just _jealous_. Fucking admit it."

The Russians eyes snapped wide open and he put his hand over his heart with more drama queen flair. "I am not _jealous_! How dare you! I want him to have friends, in fact, I've always wanted him to have more confidence, and to make more friends! It's so hard for him and I want that for him so badly! You're totally wrong!"

"No, I'm exactly right, and you know it," Chris returned calmly, familiar with this type of defensiveness whenever something got a little personal or a little too-close-for-comfort for his friend. Usually, he let it slide, but, with the image of those three huge suitcases planted firmly on his brain, Chris needed Viktor to know that he was not going to allow him to hole up here to escape this reality that he himself had created with his little Pork Cutlet Bowl.

"He hasn't even called, or texted; I keep stalking Phichit's Instagram and _nothing_ with Yuuri yet! What if something happened? What if he's hurt and can't call for me? What if-"

"When did he leave for Thailand?" Chris interrupted.

"The night before yesterday…" He lowered his head so that all that could be seen was the silver, slightly bed-head skewed hair and not the sulking face Chris _knew_ had to be their under the curtain of his bangs.

Oh. My. God. Time for preschool.

"Viktor, who is it that you like to call your Jet-Lagged Sleeping Beauty?"

"Yuuri."

"And, who is it that doesn't travel well, and who is sluggish and disoriented every single goddamn time he gets off a plane?"

"Yuuri."

"So, what do you think is the first thing your little Darling will do when he gets off the plane in Bangkok?"

"Sleep."

"Very good, Viktor," Chris replied, patting him gently on top of his silver-colored head, seeing no evidence of the bald spot of which the hyper-vain man was so terrified to exist. Sometimes, one must talk to the "child" part of the manchild after all, and the Russian wasn't even remotely offended that Chris was speaking to him as though he was a toddler and not a geezer figure skating champion. "So, don't you think that his first full day in Thailand will actually be no more than one giant nap?"

"But he didn't text me when he landed!" came the feebly whined protest from the man who now had his head in his hands to hide the reflexive pout that he'd _finally_ started to perceive was pissing Chris off.

Chris reached for his own phone and pulled up Phichit's Instagram account which always scrolled ridiculously fast. It took a couple of minutes, but he found it. "Look, Viktor," he urged gently, "You probably didn't scroll back far enough on Phichit's account. There's a selfie right here of your Katsudon and Phichit from the airport. He landed just fine."

"Give me that!" Viktor blurted out, swiping the phone from Chris's hands and bolting up from his chair so fast that it toppled over with a loud clatter. The sudden racket sent his cat, who had innocently come into the kitchen for some water, running to hide under the couch where Chris would probably spend a good hour trying to get her out later. Fantastic.

"Do you _have_ to do that?" Chris moaned as Viktor was literally _kissing_ the screen of his phone. Yuck! Didn't Viktor know that phones had more germs than a public toilet? "Viktor!" he shouted, swiping his phone back and ripping the case off. "That's disgusting!"

Viktor suddenly looked at him with a pained expression that startled Chris because he'd never seen it; it looked as though he had been stabbed right through the heart. What the heck was that for? "You...think I'm disgusting for wanting to kiss him?"

"Are you an idiot? No, just...no. It's that phones are full of germs, you Flake. Do you really think I, of _all people_ , would take offense to you making out with Yuuri? Get a _grip_ for God's sake. I'd buy _tickets_ to watch that action and you know it."

"Wow~! Really?" Instantly, his expression changed from despair to exuberance and that excited, fake-flirty look Chris knew very well indeed.

The younger groaned. "Yeah. Really. Though I highly doubt that Yuuri would go for that. Unless he was _tanked_ , of course," he added with a wink.

Viktor sighed. "I suppose that's one fantasy you'll have to leave to your own imagination," he remarked, almost casually, but with a barely-there edge to his voice that only ten years of knowing the guy helped Chris to detect as being different from his "normal", or, from whatever passed for "normal" with Viktor. It told Chris that he was definitely missing out on _something,_ and that Viktor had no intention of sharing. Ever. Too bad. He seriously would buy tickets to that show, and he knew a handful of other people who probably would too, but he wasn't going to tell Viktor that since apparently _this_ version of the Flake definitely had a little possessive and jealous streak going over his little Katsudon. He had already discovered that Viktor was protective of him, having had the thought at the time that it was so unlike the Flake to want to protect anything else but his life on the ice. Throw in jealousy and possessiveness to the mix and it was no wonder his friend was a train wreck after all. Viktor had never been attached to anyone really, romantically or otherwise, not even him, not even when Chris sort of didn't mind the idea of maybe getting involved with him when he was a lot younger and didn't really know Viktor as anything other than a beautiful god with golden blades and long silver hair.

But, now that Chris knew all of these little tidbits about his friend, he'd pretty much figured out what Viktor needed in this moment: friendly reassurance, a little bit more tough love, and a changed flight reservation to send him back to Russia sooner than later. Like maybe _tomorrow_.

By this time, The Russian had righted his chair and was back to sipping his coffee. "Chris," he said seriously, "I don't want to lose him."

"What makes you think that's going to happen? Didn't he move to Russia? Aren't you living together as 'dorks in love' with your huge-ass dog and your little adopted 'son' Plisetsky?"

"It's...not always easy, and Yurio does _not_ live with us and he's _not_ our son. If that were to happen, I really would be losing all my hair," he added with a rueful chuckle. "Yuuri...I...love that man, but it's _hard_ , Chris, it's hard sometimes."

"I bet," Chris couldn't help but to playfully contribute to offset his friend's somber tone, mainly because he wasn't all that used to it. They were friends, but always of the close-but-not-too-close variety, despite the tonsil hockey they sometimes played. To hear Viktor outright admit that he was in love with Yuuri, even though it had been obvious since Sochi, hearing it was still jarring. It was probably insensitive to make the comment, but he sensed Viktor wouldn't hold it against him, because he also understood that they didn't normally talk like this either.

"I'm being serious right now," the Russian said plainly. "I...think he needs more than me sometimes, and I don't know how to approach it with him. So instead, I decide to be fake-supportive and wish him 'bon voyage' for his trip, all the while having an inner meltdown because he'd rather spend this time with Phichit than with me. And I want him to have friends, but part of me selfishly wishes that I am the only one he will ever need, that I am the only one who can help him, to meet him where he is mentally, that only I can pick up the pieces if he shatters...and there are days when he just needs more than that, more than _me_."

Chris pondered the statement. "Like...he doesn't want to be exclusive or something?"

"No, no, not like that," Viktor replied with a quick shake of his head, as if he realized what he said in English could have been interpreted the wrong way too late. "I mean...he needs like a therapist or something. Or, like a psychiatrist."

The Swiss skater felt his eyebrows raise upward. "Do you really believe that? Seems like your 'hug therapy' works pretty well with him."

Viktor smiled when he looked up. The real smile. The rare one no one with a media camera ever sees. "Most of the time it does," he affirmed. The smile melted away to a look of concern. "Sometimes, nothing I do helps, and, I...sometimes I make it worse."

"Then you need to talk to him about that. He'll listen."

"He doesn't listen when he can't breathe and I wake up in the middle of the night and find him hyperventilating in the living room in a fetal position instead of sleeping in bed and nothing I do helps, or when I try to help he pushes me away, or, worse, he tells me not to worry and that it will pass. How the hell am I supposed to deal with that?"

"Maybe it will be better now that the season is over. There aren't any competitions for him to freak out about."

"That's just it. It's not only about the skating. It can be about anything sometimes…the last one was because he felt stupid because he can't read Cyrillic and he bought some wrong things at the store. I did the same thing in Japan and we laughed about it when I bought bean paste thinking it was toothpaste, but it wasn't the same in Russia; there was no consoling him over it, even though he teased me for days about the same exact thing in Hasetsu!"

"Did he have a therapist in Japan?"

"No, I didn't get the impression that he did, but he had a good support system. He had friends from the rink, his ballet teacher, and his family...everything is love for him there, and I thought I could provide that for him in St. Petersburg and everything would be great. And, don't get me wrong, it usually is great, more than great, like a dream come true that I never even realized I had...but there are those days when it….just isn't. And I feel like an asshole for getting frustrated with it sometimes."

"You're totally contradicting yourself."

"Huh?"

"Look. Viktor, you are telling me that you want to be his everything, and then you're saying you get frustrated with his, what is it, anxiety? Panic attacks? You can't have it both ways."

"You're right about that. Damn it."

"Maybe you can have him get in touch with the JSF to hook him up with a therapist in Russia. I'm sure they want their Ace in top form next year…"

"I don't even know how to approach this with him."

"Just blurt it out and prepare for all possible outcomes. Maybe Yakov can help you...you're not always the greatest coach from what I've seen," he added with a snort.

Viktor frowned. "Of course I worry for him as his coach, but, I'm doing this more as the person who never wants him to leave my side as a lover. I've...never paid attention to Life and Love before that night in Sochi, and I found it right _then_ , right _there_ , and I've not wanted to live without those two L words ever since."

Chris didn't know what to say to that, so he remained silent as Viktor met his gaze.

"Chris, I know we've sometimes...I know we have a past. It's not as though we're cat-fighting ex-lovers, but I know that we've sometimes come _this close_ to crossing that friendship-lover line. In some ways, I thought in the back of my mind that if and when we were both retired and if we hooked up here and there, that could be enough for me, and I sort of had the hope that maybe it might be enough for you. I know now that it would not have been. For either of us. I hope you understand that."

"Of course I do. Why do you think I got so pissed that you're here when I was ready for a nice long weekend of sexy times with-"

"Mystery Man."

"He has a name, Flake."

"But I don't want to hear you say it just yet. I'm...a selfish jerk. Part of me wants to keep it in the recesses of thought that if either of us don't find success in a real relationship, that we'd figure out a way to cope with that. With each other."

"I'm not interested in playing second violin to Yuuri as your concertmaster. You are an asshole, but, I guess that makes me an asshole too, because I've often had the same thought from time to time over the years. Not so much now that I have someone else, but yeah. I get it."

Viktor looked relieved. "Okay."

"And, Viktor, you need to know that I really want to try with this person, and I can't have you barging in every time you need a pity-party because of Yuuri. I wanted to spend my Date Night with him, not with _you_."

"It's not a pity-party!" the Russian protested.

"Okay, not all of it, but seriously, Viktor. I'm not an expert on relationships either. I have a lot to figure out too, and I'm not there yet, so how can I help you with this? You need to just sit Yuuri down and tell him most of what you told me, and come what may."

"I love how you said 'most'," he said with a little laugh. "I'm assuming you're not wanting me to exactly tell him all about our drunken shenanigans, and about, you know, the other stuff."

"I don't have a death wish."

"Neither do I," he commented. "I'll probably have to tell him someday, but I'd prefer that time to be when you are well and fully attached to MM."

"Oh, so now you're abbreviating his pseudonym even?"

The living legend laughed a little again. "Yeah. I'm pathetic."

"So now that you've seen Phichit's Instagram and you know he got there safely, are you going to be okay with him being there and maybe not texting or calling you fifty times a day?"

"No...but I think I have to try. Even if I'm still kind of offended. You know he actually told me once, right before Barcelona that Phichit was the only foreign skater he considered to be his _friend_? I felt like he was stabbing and eating my heart with a dull spoon! He's soooo cruuuueel sometimes and he doesn't even realize it!"

Chris allowed himself to laugh a little. "But then he put a ring on your finger, not Phichit's, right?"

"As a thank you, and for luck he said. I was the one who turned it into something else…" the Russian was looking at the gold band on his right hand fondly before he raised it to his lips and closed his eyes.

"I don't see him really complaining."

"Yeah."

Chris looked at his phone; it was getting late. "Can I kick you out of here tomorrow?"

"I only planned to stay until Monday."

"What?!" the Swiss skater blurted out. "Are you kidding me?!"

"Well yeah."

"You have three huge suitcases with like fifty changes of clothes!"

"Ehhh...would you believe force of habit?"

Chris shook his head as he rose from his chair and put the empty coffee mugs in the sink. "Yeah, from you, I believe it. I'm going to bed. Just talk to Yuuri. Get him to understand that maybe seeing a professional isn't such a bad idea. I'm sure _you_ can come up with a way to make that bitter pill taste like honey to him...or maybe it should taste like whatever your favorite flavored lube might be..."

"Chris!" the man replied with fake-exasperation.

"And don't be so jealous. You'll go bald with worry."

" _Chris!_ " Viktor repeated with real exasperation. "That's a _very_ sensitive subject you're playing with there!"

"And maybe don't hang all over him so much, hmm? Possessive much?!"

"That's it," Viktor retorted with a very pronounced pout. "I'm _definitely_ leaving as soon as possible!"

"Awesome. The sooner you leave that bedroom, the sooner mon petit chou will be back in mine," he tossed over his shoulder as he left the kitchen. "May you have blissful Katsudon dreams!"

The next morning, Chris staggered into the kitchen to find that Viktor was on cloud nine because Yuuri had apparently called him from Thailand with a million apologies because he dropped his phone and it cracked beyond repair, and that he would buy a new one as soon as he got back to St. Petersburg, and that he swore that he was coming back and that he was having fun and that he missed him.

That full report was babbled over Chris like a cold Alpine mountain stream before he'd even had his first full cup of hot coffee and put his contacts in. The happy consequence of Viktor's good mood was that he had apparently borrowed Chris's car, _without asking of course!_ , to run to the market for groceries that he used to make a very nice breakfast of blueberry blintzes. Chris was definitely unaware of this side of Viktor Nikiforov; he always figured him to be a train wreck in the kitchen too because, well, being a manchild and all that. Chris chose to ignore the absolute mess of his kitchen sink for the moment so he could enjoy the unfettered delight of a verily domesticated Russian Living Legend slaving over a hot stove for his benefit.

"Where's your 'kiss the cook' apron?" he quipped.

The apron-less cook laughed lightly and placed some blintzes on a plate and set it before him, sprinkling a little powdered sugar on top like a dusting of fresh snow. "Sadly, I forgot to pack that," he returned with a wink.

He put a couple of blintzes on his own plate, nixed the sugar for himself, Chris noted, and dug in. "Vkusno~!"

The younger took a bite of his own and was shocked. It really was vkusno. Un-fucking believable. The train wreck could actually cook. "This is really good. Thanks for making it."

The Russian shrugged. "I'm not totally incapable of adulting."

"I suppose you aren't."

"I changed my flight. The earliest I could get was a red-eye tonight. Sorry about that," he said.

"It's okay. I actually don't mind you visiting, just make sure to actually tell me next time."

"Okay. And...thanks for being such a good friend. You know I don't have too many of those. I think you're my only real one of those…"

Chris put his fork down. "Go back to St. Petersburg and relax and wait for him to come home. He loves you. He'll understand you if you try."

At that moment, Chris's phone began to ring, and the name brought a smile to his face. He answered it, right in front of Viktor, and neither of them seemed to mind. "Good Morning, chéri. Pleasant dreams of me last night?"

Viktor chuckled quietly from his seat across the table, but Chris saw _something_. That look. That mischievous little glint in those ice-blue eyes. He _did_ something. Shit. _Shit!_

"Oh, yes, yes, I'm still here, chéri, what's wrong? Oh...but of course, I am here to serve. Ah, well, you know how my mind works...and I definitely meant tonight." By this time Viktor was doing a really shitty job of suppressing his giggles and Chris was staring daggers at him, mouthing "What. Did. You. _Do?_!" to his friend, toward which the asked just shrugged in response which was more scary than actually being told.

"Of course, mon petit chou, we have plenty of time for whatever you like." At this, Viktor held up seven fingers. "I'll pick you up at seven then, tonight. Yes, he's leaving tonight. All right. Until then." He closed the call. "Out with it, Nikiforov."

"Oh, it's nothing special, really."

"Viktor."

"All right, I _may_ have sent MM some flowers."

"What? How did you know his address?"

The Russian ignored the comment. "And I _may_ have also put a few ideas in the card attached for some things you could do to make up for some train-wreck-drama-queen- _manchild_ who ruined your Date Night last night."

"Ah...were they things from your own repertoire with your Katsudon-hottie, mon ami?" Chris returned with a disbelieving shake of his head and a little laugh.

"Maybe, maybe not," he replied with a wink, "And…"

" _And?_ There's _more?!_ "

"I _may_ have been able to get two tickets to a certain piano recital that _someone_ forgot to buy before Barcelona and whined to me in a pool that it was sold out and he wasn't looking forward to a certain _conversation_ about that with a certain _someone_ who shall, of course, remain _nameless_."

"What?! You better not be kidding me. How in the hell did you manage _that?!"_

The Russian cleared their plates and began to clean up the mess he made of the kitchen without a word. He pulled out his phone and, a moment later, Chris's own phone beeped for an email. "Your tickets," he remarked.

The younger opened his email and, sure enough, two front row tickets to the Chopin recital at the University were staring him back in the face from the small screen. "How did you do this?"

"I'm Viktor Nikiforov."

And that was the only answer Chris was likely to get, and he knew it.

There it was, that _real_ kindness that almost no one saw, from that man who always claimed to forget stuff, but who somehow remembered a half-drunk conversation whilst freezing his sexy ass off in that barely-heated hotel pool in Spain, who most _certainly_ knew Mystery Man's name, and managed to also find his address, a local flower shop to deliver flowers to that very address, and the ability to score tickets for which scalpers were asking hundreds of Euros. He did it to rescue the Date Night he ruined, only to give Chris a plan for a new Date Night for the ages, complete with who-knows-what lecherous ideas he wrote on that card with the flowers. All in the span of a few hours.

Because he was Viktor Nikiforov.

Chris's _friend_ who had probably just singularly guaranteed that MM would now definitely favorably consider moving forward with a more serious relationship, and it was that friend who gave this gift to Chris with the hopes that he could also find his own Life and Love with that person.

For all his dysfunction and craziness, there really was no one quite like Viktor, and he deserved every happiness he could ever have in this life, both on and off the ice. Even if it was tough for him in his new relationship sometimes too, Chris was pretty sure that Viktor had truly found his forever Life and Love.

And, even though Chris was also pretty sure that if there was truly ever any trouble in paradise that it would be 99% Viktor's fault, he resolved that he would always be there for the silver-haired legend so they could talk it out, like the friends they both knew they were.

Chris just needed to make _more_ than pretty sure that, for the next Date Night, he and his Mystery Man were already gone by the time that train wreck showed up on the doorstep.


End file.
